


How Sweet and Strange

by edenbound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Other, non-binary Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 05:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19805836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Crowley is late for their dinner reservations, but that doesn't matter. There's no rush.





	How Sweet and Strange

**Author's Note:**

> Me: "I just kind of want to write something quiet where Crowley turns up to dinner wearing a dress, he isn't nervous, and Aziraphale doesn't even notice, and they have dinner and maybe hold hands a little when no one is looking. Then they go home and sleep. It's their dream date."  
> L: "[happy puddle of bliss] Now I want it too..."  
> Me: ...Well. I can do that.
> 
> So here it is. I'm enby and asexual, and so is this Crowley. Do not be fooled by the fact that hardly any skin touches skin in this fic: this Crowley and Aziraphale are hella in love, and this is an intimate moment. For you, Lynn, for encouraging me to do it!
> 
> Title from the full lyrics of the original 'A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square'.

The material makes a very faint noise as he moves, a very little like the sound of scales on scales, the sound of a sinuous body coiling against itself, luxurious and slow. Crowley knows he looks stunning, his long form draped in clinging black, his back almost bare. He is unsurprised by the looks he gets as he walks to their table, and he is equally unsurprised when Aziraphale barely looks at him. He cares about neither of these things, and only for the wrinkles around Aziraphale's eyes as he smiles, already studying the menu. "Crowley! I did tell you seven, my dear, didn't I?"

"Traffic," Crowley offers, sliding into his seat and brushing an almost imperceptible wrinkle out of his skirt. There was traffic, of course: there always is, in London. He's seen to it himself. But also, he left a little late, prolonging the anticipation. It's all the sweeter that way.

"Ah well," Aziraphale says, "no hurry, after all. Being a little late isn't the end of the world." 

Crowley leans back in his chair, crosses his legs demurely, and settles in. Aziraphale has plenty to say -- about the menu, about a customer who just _insisted_ on telling him his entire life story (in which, of course, Aziraphale took a deep and real interest, although Crowley does not), about the wine choice, about... It doesn't matter. This is where Crowley belongs, and he settles into it with a shiver of delight. He places his hand on the table, casually, as Aziraphale uses his napkin to wipe his lips after the first course, and he thrills through the expectant wait until Aziraphale covers his hand with his. Aziraphale's hand is warm and soft and sure, and the touch is like security and home, but Crowley doesn't mind when he lets go. He can wait for the next opportunity. 

There's no hurry, after all.

"I hear they'll be serving something truly remarkable here next week," Aziraphale says. "We should come here again."

"I've arranged a reservation," Crowley says, and this is like security too. They have no need to wait for a crisis, a reason. They can simply dine together every Friday -- every night, if they want. Aziraphale is beaming.

"Well, that will be nice."

It will. Crowley will savour the wait. Will arrive a little late, to stretch out the anticipation. Still --

"I'll see you at St James' Park tomorrow," he says, finishing his glass. "Usual time."

"Of course," Aziraphale says. Their hands touch again, and Aziraphale smiles at him. "Don't forget to bring the oats. Bread is bad for them, dearest."

"I know," Crowley says. He handles the check with a snap of his fingers and rises in a slither of fabric. People are staring again, and Crowley ignores them as he sways out of the room, ignores them all the way to his car, holding the meeting tomorrow to his heart. Tonight he will sleep in his black satin sheets and wake to stretch luxuriously, will pad in on bare feet to shout at his plants, will find the tub of oats that sits incongruous in his shining, unused kitchen. Will wait, and will be late to their meeting, to stretch out those sweet moments where he knows exactly what is coming, because he will be about to spend time with Aziraphale. Dear, stuffy, fluffy, idiot Aziraphale.

They might even hold hands again. And people say there's no heavenly bliss for demons. 

Well, people say a lot of things, most of them stupid. Crowley shakes his head and drives home.


End file.
